


Still Waters

by Vukovich



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childbirth, M/M, Murder, Questionable infidelity, THE BABIES WILL BE FINE, Tags May Change, child endangerment, inconsequential alcohol consumption, inconsequential marijuana consumption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vukovich/pseuds/Vukovich
Summary: Eagles in TruroEpilogue.Part of theWheal Elvan Collection.2008. Spring.  Slovenia.  A castle.  A centerfold ex-fiance and unresolved attraction.Twins.  Angry Rusalkas.  A bell tower.  Stress.  Homesickness.WARNING: Neonatal resuscitation.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: Wheal Elvan





	1. Dead in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy, what are you doing with your life?
> 
> Draco, what are you doing with your ex?
> 
> Magnus, what are you doing with your hotness?

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”,  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Gemini in Final Descent

So profound, absurd creation; writ real in bones and meat.  
Stupefaction reigns supreme.  
Gods, these two hearts beat.

Does this, then, a man redeem?  
Keep _that_ receipt.  
Former life, halfway downstream;  
More bitter than sweet.  
Plucked from heavens, sight unseen.

While these two hearts beat.  
Pulled from water, pulled from dream.  
Such profound disorientation; these visions made concrete.

DLM 2008 Borl Castle, Drava River, Slovenia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

“For the record, this is a ferociously terrible-“

“Dammit, Pans,” Draco hissed, beyond annoyed.

“-idea, and I want you to know that I take absolutely-“

“Oh, shut it!” Draco tossed another handful of Floo powder in the fireplace, having burned through two already. A Parkinson rant was never short.

She rested an elbow on the stone mantle while she glared at him. The sun through the French doors behind her shone through a sheer linen pantsuit. A cheery kind of revealing in a yellow and white sunroom. Men and a few women seated at the cafe tables had followed Pansy’s barely-clothed figure with intrigue.

“You haven’t gotten laid the entire month we’ve been in Greece, and now you’re going to go wait around with the Swede in a castle. What could possibly go wrong, Draco? Draco _Clothes are for Quitters_ Malfoy? Huh?”

Several heads turned in the resort sunroom, whether due to the nickname or his last name, it was hard to tell. Or they recognized him from the Daily Prophet.

“Your flattery is at war with your slaggery again,” he muttered, hoisting a duffel bag over his shoulder. “And you’re one to talk about bad fucking plans. Motherhood? Sure, Pans. But not like this.”

“What?” she said with a wicked grin. “Praeter Onasis and his immense fortune and chiseled good looks want a reputable heir. I want a child who grows up disgustingly wealthy and isn’t ugly.”

“Cal and Baz are going to make your life hell. The Praeter already gave up on controlling them.” Draco shook his head. It wasn’t the _worst_ idea, but it wasn’t a great one, either.

“You’ve seen me duel,” she replied, shrugging.

“You make questionable decisions then, too.”

“Go enjoy your romantic, platonic getaway with your centerfold ex-fiance.” Pansy examined her nails and pointedly ignored him. “And your babies. I’ll send cigars to Wheal Elvan next week. Maybe something stronger.”

Draco rolled his eyes and threw another handful of Floo powder. “Varaždin Public”

“And I hope you enjoy negotiating a contract for the use of your womb like one of his Aerarium vaults.”

“I _will_ , thank you very much.”

“Try to not empty out the _entire_ Roman bank, Pans.”

“Try to not empty your balls all over Falk.”

“Don’t drop your turkey baster.”

“Don’t drop your _babies_ , Dray.”

Pansy waved him goodbye with precisely one finger. “Love youuuu!”

—————————————

The Varaždin public Floo was a fucking bread oven in an alley in Old Town, and Draco was pretty sure he was being accused of theft. But he was mostly concerned with avoiding direct hits to the face with a wooden cane. He handed the wad of bread dough back to the angry witch while she reared back for another wallop.

A hearty send-off from a hopeful mother-to-be, and a lovely greeting from someone’s bloody Keeper of a grandmother guarding the Floo. She jabbed him in the rear and cackled as he turned away. A fine voyage.

He slunk into an empty vendor stall to get his bearings and lick his wounds. Rather minor wounds, and rather lovely bearings. 

High white stucco walls and red, clay-tiled roofs surrounded the complex. Tall, narrow windows with deep ledges hinted at an original incarnation as a fortress. Witches and wizards called from stalls around him, various magical wares for sale. A bit like a Parisian outdoor market stocked with Diagon goodies.

His bag hit the cobblestones with a soft thud, and he sat on it. His elbows rested on his bent knees, and he let out a long sigh. Several people glanced his way as they passed, but the malice he expected simply wasn’t there. Did they get the Prophet here? Had they seen the full-page Society spread on his bloody living arrangements?

Niggling doubt wormed at him as he watched the people pass. Maybe Pansy wasn’t wrong. Maybe meeting Magnus _was_ a bad idea. Sure, having a Healer, especially one who’d just come from training at Kos, was a great idea. But maybe that Healer being Draco wasn’t necessary. Maybe a local birthing witch was a better idea.

Perhaps none of it was _necessary_ , but it felt right. It _felt_ right to be there. It _felt_ right to pull them from the water, literally or not. He’d done it in a dream, and it _had_ to mean something.

With a sigh, he slid fingers into his trouser pocket and withdrew the crude map Magnus had Owled him months ago.

“Daft fucking bastard,” Draco grumbled.

The castle was at _least_ twenty-five miles away. He eyed the sun’s position, watched the immobile clouds, and checked the flutter of trailing fabric and hair in the crowd. A slight tail-wind toward the castle, then.

Not a terrible flight, he thought as he rose and stretched, but then turned to regard his duffel bag with a disappointed slouch. Even an Animagus eagle couldn’t carry that. At best, he could put on half the clothing and still shift.

“Bloody-“

He wiggled a third shirt on, and stuffed himself into a jacket.

“-stupid-“

A pair of pajama pants slid up over his trousers.

“-wanker.”

He huffed in disapproval as he dug through the bag, stuffing his pockets with pants and socks. Best of luck to whoever found a discarded duffle bag with a week’s worth of dirty laundry in it.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, straightening. 

The alley around the corner was quiet enough, and he melted into his feathers. The extra clothing transformed itself into a thick layer of down, and he fluffed it with a ruffling shudder. Awkwardly, he walked on taloned claws into the street, beat his wings twice, and took off.

His destination had him flying directly into the setting sun, and it warmed the mahogany feathers over his body nicely. The city dropped away, a dot of civilization amongst the forest and hills. Streams flowed along his flightpath, and he fought the urge to follow them to the Drava River. His destination was further upstream than theirs.

Twenty-five miles north-north-west, fork in the river, next to a bridge. Red-orange tile roof, buttercream-yellow stucco walls, on a hill overlooking the river. A perch on a white bell-tower. His eyes scanned as he caught an updraft.

Distance was irrelevant once height had been attained, and he fell into the easy glide of strong upper currents. He relaxed in the unexpected peace in not having to draw breath, but letting the rush of air fill his lungs at will.

His gaze swept the surface of the earth below him, more in idle curiosity than searching. A red-roofed yellow manor on a hill next to a slithering, black-brown river caught his eye, and he startled, talons flexing below him. Too short a flight.

He wheeled in slow descent, examining the area. The heavy smell of rushing river water mixed with the scent of early spring plants, and it made the building’s cold iron and crumbling mortar smell even more unnatural.

And crumbling, it was. Walls and windows to the east, away from the river, looked to have been renovated, but others were in danger of being reclaimed by the forest. Bricks stuck out where entire sheets of stucco had fallen off onto the ground. The courtyard was a mess of cracked pavement and weeds.

But, as specified, there was a landing perch on the bell tower. His wings back-pedaled as he slowed to land, talons wrapping around the perch. The tower had just enough room for an enormous bird to turn into a tallish, lanky man. In shifting, the knuckles of one hand smacked against the wide brass bell, and it rang dully while he sucked on the bruised joints.

A copy of the Daily Prophet sat on a folding chair with a mug of coffee, and he frowned. Not much of a welcome. But greetings were perhaps irrelevant when long-distance Legilimency was an option.

_**Mag! I’m going to drink your coffee.** _

After several moments of non-reply, he helped himself with a quiet smile. The mug was pleasantly hot in his hands, and he mentally fluffed his imaginary feathers happily, then shook his head at himself. Too much time on the wing in Greece. Lingering birdbrain.

Distant footfalls echoed up the spiral staircase from the opening in the bell tower floor. He cocked his head to examine the Prophet on the chair. It was _that_ issue of the Prophet. The one where the world found out the Death Eater-turned-charity-case was bedding the Head Auror. And Granger. And that one Ronald Weasley was involved in the scenario. Often literally.

He could only imagine what the communication siege at Wheal Elvan had looked like. Ron had said he’d maintain the Blood wards, but Draco hadn’t really expected him to do it. There was probably owl shit everywhere by now.

A low creaking of wood on the other side of the bell caught his attention, and he leaned around the brass rim. A glint of sunlight bounced his way, reflected off sunglasses on top of a head of near-black hair that was rising through the opening in the floor.

Magnus Falk rose through the floor, a spectacle of cold beauty. A celestial anomaly that ate light and put out heat it couldn’t feel.

Strands of dark hair fell in front of his eyes as he came up the steps, and he brushed it back, jet black eyes scanning the horizon and settling on Draco’s legs. His impartial gaze drifted up Draco’s body, lingering on the stolen coffee, as Magnus rose. Wide shoulders crested, followed by the chest Draco knew so well. Knew the feel of it under his lips. Knew the sound of that heartbeat under his ear. Knew the timbre of his moans in his own bones. Knew the delicate artwork that crept up from his arm.

The body he knew like his own stepped up, stretched to its full and unearthly height, and came toward him, but Draco circled, keeping the bell between them. He rapped it with his knuckles as he walked.

His eye itched, but he didn’t bother rubbing it or blinking, and cleared his throat instead. He glimpsed Magnus slipping his mobile into his pocket.

“You used the perch,” came Magnus’s rumbling baritone.

The thick metal of the bell hummed in resonance with Magnus, and Draco ran fingers along the cusp as he stepped around, just out of Magnus’s line of sight. The cold, vibrating metal was almost painful against the edge of a fingernail.

“I added it last week,” he continued.

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. Magnus Falk could read Quidditch scores on the wireless and call it erotic audio, he thought. His vaguely-Scandinavian, sometimes-Russian, always-Falk accent added a teasing cadence to his generally condescending tone.

“Your Prophet article was very thorough, _älskling_.” 

An involuntary hum trickled from Draco’s throat at the name, and he hid it with a sip from the mug. Magnus’s trainers crunched chunks of crumbled mortar against the wooden planks as he circled, following Draco.

He took another step forward, briefly glimpsing Magnus’s trailing fingers ahead of him before Magnus stepped forward. The itch of his Legilimency tickled Draco’s eye, and he cleared his throat. A quiet reminder to stay out of Draco’s head.

“You were very forthcoming,” Magnus stated plainly.

Draco stepped past the staircase opening, past the perch, both of them staying just out of sight. It was cowardly, Draco thought. To avoid meeting him face-to-face. But maybe Pansy was right. Magnus’s voice was enough to have brought a flush to his cheeks. His nearness and looming height already had Draco shifting uneasily in his clothes.

“You did not mention the twins, though.” Magnus sounded almost disappointed.

He wiped sweaty palms down the pajama pants and stopped walking. Turning, he took in the view over the river. Spectacular in the setting sun. Winding, opaque water and dense, barren forest on all sides. A bright green haze crept through the trees. Buds were just beginning to break open, but were still so vulnerable to a late spring frost.

His hands gripped the railing, and he felt Magnus at his side before he saw him. A shimmering, beckoning heat that bypassed his skin and warmed his flesh. Eyes closed against the sun, he pulled his bottom lip under and hesitated. His fingers wrapped around the steaming mug, willing his body to accept the smaller warmth.

“I didn’t know how,” Draco whispered, eyes still closed. Still avoiding. Still hiding in plain sight from the man who’d always seen him. 

Fingertips grazed his jaw, and he gasped shortly as they turned his face upward and toward Magnus. His eyes slid open, and calloused fingertips ran along his chin. 

His gaze drifted upward, over the square jaw and ever-present subtle gum-chewing, across firm lips that he knew were unreasonably soft. He lingered along Magnus’s nose, inappropriately straight and perfect for as many times as he knew it had been broken on a Quidditch pitch. Below the sweep of dark brows, black eyes watched him. 

Drowning pools, not eyes. Human eyes don’t have a gravitational pull. Drowning pools do. Those eyes narrowed, and Magnus’s jaw stilled, thinking. 

Draco’s chin leaned into the touch and let out a fluttering sigh. A tight curl of heat at the base of his spine sparked as Magnus’s thumb ran over Draco’s bottom lip.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing, _älskling_ ,” Magnus murmured, examining Draco’s flushed cheeks above his grip on Draco’s jaw. “Undress.”

Magnus plucked the mug from Draco's hands, and his breath caught. He pulled his top lip under, wiping a sheen of sweat off. 

He made several breathy attempts at speech. “Mag, I- Harry and Hermione- And Markus- We-“

“Draco,” Magnus said firmly, releasing his chin, “you’re wearing an entire wardrobe.”

“Oh!” Draco shouted. “Right.”

He ran a sleeve over his face and slipped the jacket off. A puff of warm air from the yellow sweatshirt below below the jacket smelled faintly of Harry, and his hardening cock throbbed in response. He pulled the fabric up over his nose, but the scent was gone. 

The panoramic view of the river valley in front of them was nothing short of breathtaking, and he sighed, watching the setting sun disappear behind the treeline.

Magnus’s hand slid over Draco’s on the railing, and a push of magic rolled up Draco’s arm. He felt the vining tattoo up his arm turnover from black to green, and he assumed the flowers opened, but it was hidden under his sleeve. Warmth sank into his shoulder, and he swallowed thickly as the corners of Magnus’s lips twitched, ever so slightly, into an almost-smile.

_Gods_ , why couldn’t this man just age poorly?

“Mag?” he whispered, fighting the urge to lean into the heat next to him.

“Hm?”

“I think this was a bad idea.”

—————————————

Four-thirty in the morning was an abysmal time to be awake, Draco thought, fumbling Harry’s watch back into the pocket of the trousers on his floor. With a defeated huff, he hoisted himself up and out of the creaky bed. It had a wire frame and an ancient, lumpy feather mattress. Leftovers from the building’s brief stint as a WWII Gestapo prison, apparently. Lovely.

Pink-gold light scattered over the floor from a long, narrow window, and he squinted as he rested his elbows on the frame on either side of his head. He leaned forward, forehead on the hazy glass, and let the light skim his eyelids. The stucco crumbled against his forearms and sifted to the floor to join the gritty pile.

There were better suites in the castle, Magnus had said, but this one was next to the exit closest to the river. The main lobby and renovated rooms were on the East end, and he had to wonder if that wasn’t a sensible choice. The sand-lined ribbon of water outside the window glinted like glass shards in the early light.

He turned and glanced around the room. This one had certainly seen better days. Pieces of plaster had fallen from the ceiling, exposing the lathe. The wall to his left held a door to Magnus’s room, and was pock-marked with either bullet holes or anchors for something he didn’t want to think about. Long gouges decorated the wood floor near the door to the hall, and the carved lines curved their way into the suite’s bathroom down the short hall. 

Courtyards and torture. Rather like Malfoy Manor, he thought. Opulent and oppressive. Quiet but disturbing.

The bed behind him mocked him, as it had all night. Too small, too soft, too absolutely, utterly empty. At what point had the man who’d lived in a mineshaft for years become unable to sleep alone? Embarrassing. Like a child missing a teddy bear. He smiled softly at the idea of Harry being anything like a teddy bear, but the smile withered into a homesick pout.

_Merlin’s tits. Harry. Hermione. Ron. Home._ It had been a shock, after the first week in Greece, how much he’d missed Wheal Elvan. Hard to be homesick till one has a home, he figured, and he finally did.

This time of day should have been filled with quiet breathing, the rustle of skin against his sheets, the murmur of Hermione in her sleep, and Harry’s arm tight around his waist.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose. He breathed deeply, but it had been too long to still smell like Harry. It was just a shirt. And he was just alone.

Maybe if he got a good run in, he’d be tired enough to take a nap. Magnus said he’d be busy helping with renovations until his sister or another Rusalka _beckoned_ him, which Draco suspected wasn’t going to be a simple holler. 

A run, maybe a shower, a nap, and then… wait around for a Being to go into labor, somehow get her children away from the Rusalkas, away from the river, off the Continent, and back to Wheal Elvan. No big deal.

All that, and try to not think about the unwitting sex god of a Quidditch coach who’d be lifting rafters or some such bollocks all day. Probably getting very sweaty in the cold, nipple-tightening spring air, and then taking off his shirt to-

Running it was, then.

An hour later, the property thoroughly-surveilled, he waited at the east edge, looking up at the castle on the short cliff. They called it a castle, but it had to have been built as a fortress. It watched the river with wary, slitted eyes, and Draco briefly wondered what foe it was intended to protect against.

A road hugged the bottom of the cliff, and he jogged across, slowing as his feet hit the wood planks of the pier. It stretched out over the forested bank before widening into a platform above the water. A wide sandbar split the river in front of him, driftwood piled at its peak.

The rushing water below was an utterly indeterminable depth. Somehow crystal-clear and ink-black. Liquid smoked glass. A massive, flowing drowning pool.

He leaned his back against the railing and looked back at the castle. Magnus might be awake.

Slowly, he let waves of Legilimency out. Like a barrier dropped; gentle, testing magic easing its way toward their rooms at the nearest corner. It was a bit far, but he hadn’t attempted to feel for someone else’s mind in a long time.

A sleepy, content presence rippled back to him, like a rock in a river. He eased his attention around it, nudging, waiting for Magnus to wake up and-

A sharp crack and searing pain slammed his head forward, collapsing him flat on the deck. He tasted blood as he registered that he was conscious. Black stars skittered through his vision, and his hand found the back of his head and came away warm and sticky. His eyes blinked rapidly as his vision cleared. Blood smeared on the wood planks below his split lip. His tongue skirted over his teeth in assessment.

A bloodied rock lay in front of him, and he froze, unsure. Someone had thrown it from the river. How long had he been laying here? Was the person already coming up the bank to the pier? Had they stayed on the bank, aiming something else at him? If he moved, would he take another blow?

**_ÄLSKLING_ , CLOSE YOUR EYES.**

Blood oozed down his jaw, and he grunted in pain as he lifted his head and reached for his Legilimency again, sending it seeking toward the river. It drifted out like a cloud, waiting for something to break its path. Instead of parting around an object, something _pulled_ , sucking his attention with it. It _wanted_.

He had to see, because it wanted him to see, but he refused to open his eyes. Whatever, or whoever, was his magic’s sole point of focus. It drew his magic as it drew his body, and he was pressed against the deck railing before he knew he’d moved. It wanted him to come closer, and his magic wanted to _go_ closer.

His toes gripped against the soles of his shoes as his body came into focus. His fingers wrapped around the railing to keep from shaking. He didn’t remember standing. Nor did he remember walking to the edge of the deck.

The pier shuddered and swayed under his feet, and he gulped. He braced for it to collapse, but enormous hands clapped over his eyes from behind. He squeaked in surprise and prepared to be hauled off.

He winced as the back of his head was pulled against a heaving chest. Heavy breathing in his ear made goosebumps run down his arms. The chest rumbled deliciously against him before he could interpret the words.

“You shouldn’t be down here alone, Draco.”

“I don’t think I was, was I?” he croaked, making no move to take Magnus’s hands off his eyes.

“No, you were not.”

—————————————

“Don’t be rude, _älskling_ ,” Magnus said flatly, slowly putting his mobile down and inspecting the trays of food on the bed.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. And I wasn’t rude.”

Draco nudged bits of turnip and cabbage around the plate on his lap, not sure if he wanted to mix them with the blob of yellow mush or not. It tilted warily as he refolded his legs, and he wondered if it wasn’t a matter of time till they merged.

“You scoffed in his face, Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“That’s worse.”

“I know.”

“Fine. It was a little rude.”

“I know.”

Being served a family-style dinner on top of Magnus’s bed was odd. There was plenty of space, unlike his own bed, but it was comfortable in an uncomfortable kind of way. 

Especially given that it was, indeed _the_ bed. The bed that he saw in crystal balls, and Ron’s crystal jewelry line, and too many times when he closed his eyes at night. The bed with a naked Magnus in it.

“What _don’t_ you know, almighty Rusalka?”

Magnus’s lips quirked into what was almost a smile. “I don’t know what you expected to eat. Not eating pork is vegetarianism here.”

He cut into a small meatloaf, and the unexpected golden yolk of a hard-boiled egg showed as he took a slice. It smelled amazing, and Draco’s mouth watered. His turnips and mush were oddly reminiscent of Azkaban fare.

“You can have the egg out of the middle of the štefani pečenka, if you want.”

Draco scoffed, Magnus shook his head disapprovingly, and Draco slumped. Maybe he really was rude. Maybe Magnus just brought out the Malfoy Heir in him.

“No eggs. Eagle reasons.”

“Ah,” Magnus whispered, putting the slice on his own plate, “more for me.”

Draco pressed his fork into the mush, making it squish between the tines in ribbons. “This is enough food for four adults.”

“Disagree,” Magnus muttered around a massive bite of the meatloaf.

Shaking his head, Draco tried a bite of the mush, and hummed thoughtfully around a mouthful. It was polenta by another name. _Good_ polenta.

“I will be living off this,” he said, shoveling in another bite. He swallowed it and watched Magnus cut off a larger piece of meatloaf. “So. Are you looking forward to being called ‘Uncle Magnus’?”

Ebony-irised eyes studied him while Magnus chewed, swallowed, and reached down to the floor for his water. He took a slow gulp.

“I’ve been _farbror_ in Östersund for six years, and _onkel_ in Stuttgart for five.”

“Oh. I didn’t-“ he started. “Uhm. How many kids?”

Five years, Draco thought as Magnus spoke. Harry’s words echoed back to him, _Don’t get married without me._

But Magnus had done exactly that. Draco been in Azkaban when Magnus got married. He’d been alone in a fucking hole in the ground while Magnus said his vows. 

He’d been running from Aurors and throwing himself on the mercy of the sea, his own nerve, and a belly full of potion while Magnus had been _dating_. 

Magnus Falk had been playing _goddamn Quidditch_ while Draco was huddled in a freezing mineshaft in Cornwall. For _years_.

“… so that’s Markus’s nieces and nephews. Róki and Lóa each have two children, both…”

Draco realized he’d been chewing the same mouthful for a while and swallowed. Magnus’s voiced drifted through him with names of children he wouldn’t remember. Names of children he was obviously fond of. Children with whom he spent time; holidays, birthdays, and vacations.

“…but they’ll have another before she turns forty…”

Magnus, who didn’t want a family, had been building one without him the _entire_ time Draco had been alone. Alone on a cliff, alone in a cell, alone in a fucking mineshaft.

“…built a summerhouse near the beach…”

“Mag,” he said, just above a whisper. The Falk family monologue halted, and he waited for Draco to continue. “Did you look for me?”

Magnus’s lips tightened, and his face tilted down to look at his plate. Slowly, he took another bite and chewed it. 

Draco felt the itch of Magnus’s Legilimency, and cleared his throat. “You didn’t, did you?”

Magnus swallowed thickly and didn’t look up. “No. I didn’t.”

Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, and he sniffed. “Why?”

“I would have found you.”

Draco’s chest froze, and the room spun. Shaking slightly, he set his fork down and crossed the knife over it. “Finding is generally the point of looking, yes.”

“I _told_ you to go into ICW custody in _St. Petersburg_ , Draco. When we _met_.” He stopped and cut another piece of meatloaf. “You chose your parents then. And every other time.”

Draco’s lips parted to deliver a scathing rebuttal, but only a sigh escaped. 

It was true. He had chosen his parents in St. Petersburg. He’d chosen them when they followed him to Durmstrang. He’d chosen them over the ICW’s sanctuary offer. He’d chosen them when he went along with Narcissa’s Bacchanalia. He’d chosen them when the Thestrels’ heads had hit the floor. He’d chosen them when he’d taken Magnus’s broom from the bedroom floor and flew away ahead of the tide of dragon fire.

“They needed to be put down, Draco.”

“Popular opinion.” He huffed a wry laugh. “Ron’s mum killed her. Of all people.”

Magnus had steadily consumed an entire bloody meatloaf, and was eying Draco’s turnips and cabbage. He handed his plate over with a faint smirk.

Magnus chuffed a bitter laugh and loaded a forkful of turnips. “The same woman who killed Nightmare Bitch Queen’s sister. The aunt. I think I like these Weasleys.”

Draco nodded and scrubbed his lips with a napkin. He tossed it on a tray while stewed vegetables disappeared behind Magnus’s lips.

“Mag, I think they _had_ to be gone for this to work. The twins, the other children, Wheal Elvan. All of it.”

Magnus simply nodded, chewed, then set the plates aside, rocking back, ankles crossed and tucked in front of him. His hands settled on his knees, and he gazed longingly at the plate that had once contained an egg-centered meatloaf. _Gods_ , the man could eat. How had Draco forgotten?

Slowly, Draco reached out and slid his left hand over the back of one of Magnus’s. He slid his tattooed pinkie finger along Magnus’s, lining up the vines before nudging a bit of magic into it. Magnus watched the vines on his hand roll with glinting gold and crimson flowers as they disappeared up his sleeve.

The gold reflected off black eyes as they found Draco’s gaze. Draco sorted through his memories of dreams and Prophecies lodged like crystals in his mind. Every dream of the children, of eaglets before them, herded together and snaffled up in a bag of Legilimency.

He nudged the writhing bag of what Harry called “Seer shit” to Magnus, and he accepted it with nothing but a single fluttering blink.

“For later,” Draco said with finality. “I think there’s an Owl at the window in my room.”

His eye itched, and he let Magnus in as he got to his feet.

**YOU CAN SLEEP WITH ME.**

Draco’s hand froze on the doorknob, his back turned to Magnus on his bed.

_**What?** _

**I KNOW YOU, _ÄLSKLING._**

It was too intimate. Too accurate. Too much to hear his pet name in Magnus’s voice inside his head. Too many memories, and too many of them were too damned good. Hot skin under his hands. Hard hips against his inner thighs. A rough hand over his mouth, muffled screams as he came on the cottage floor so hard he _hoped_ he’d died, because there was no point in living after feeling that good.

He cleared his throat instead of letting the memories surface.

“You never slept when I travelled.” Air puffed from pillows as Magnus leaned back on the bed. “Never slept _alone_ , anyway.”

Draco brushed off the barb. A solid hit.

“I’ll be fine, Mag.” He turned the knob and nudged the door open.

“If you’re _not_ fine, let yourself in.”

The door clicked shut behind Draco, and he sagged against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more you scream, the faster I write. Science. Stalk me on Tumblr. Lots. 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	2. Testing the Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco fucks up.  
> Ron fucks up.
> 
> Magnus is keeping secrets.  
> Hermione's not.
> 
> Harry's a disaster. Like usual.

—————————————

He angled Harry’s watch in the moonlight. 2:30 AM. Not a wink.

The bed squeaked, metal on metal, as he swung his legs out and sat up. The room was a bit too much like an Azkaban cell. Larger, and with a window, granted. But the iron and mortar scent, the echoes of pain; all rather reminiscent.

And the isolation. The cold bed. _Trapped._

His heartbeat thudded up his neck at the thought. He forced air through his nose. Not trapped. Waiting.

He walked to the window and tried to shove it open with clammy hands, but it was stuck tight. _Trapped._

Swallowing past a lump in his throat, he took a stuttering step toward the hall door. _Trapped._

His eyes burned as he crossed the room. The doorknob stuck, and he rattled it with shaking hands. _Trapped trapped trapped._

**ÄLSKLING.**

Draco flinched, then blew a long breath out through pursed lips. Not alone. Not trapped.

**_Yes?_ **

**BOND AND A BLUNT IF YOU WANT.**

His abrupt snort echoed through the room, and his hand clapped over his mouth. Of all the phrases he never expected to hear again, that was at the top of the list.

**_You are thirty-six years old and a respected member of Wizarding society, Magnus Falk._ **

**AND YOU SOUND LIKE LUCIUS.**

Draco turned and took the few steps to the door to Magnus’s room, but his hand hovered over the knob, still trembling slightly.

The door swung open slowly, and he took a moment to inspect the room. Sure enough, Magnus had left a rolled spliff next to his knife on the windowsill. He lay nude on his side, arm stretched out in front of him. Cold moonlight cast a silver hue over his skin. The déjà vu nearly brought Draco to his knees. 

A whiff of alcohol caught his attention, and he cleared his throat.

“Did you go out _drinking_?”

A low hum came from the bed. “Mm hm. A little. Ballycastle fans and a bottle of borovička in the lobby.”

Draco settled himself half-seated in the windowsill and lit the blunt with a wandless _Incendio_ and long draw. Magnus rolled over at the crackle.

“You kept more vices than I thought,” Draco murmured, breath held. The smoke burned like a mother fucker as he tried to steady his exhale.

Bergamot, tobacco, and weed flooded his senses. A wave of nostalgia and a solid coughing jag followed it. 

“Amateur,” Magnus grumbled. “Knife’s on the ledge there, too.”

Draco slid the window open and pulled another breath through the crackling blunt. Magnus’s Blood knife watched him with onyx eyes, blade glittering in the moonlight.

_**This is a bad idea.** _

A dismissive grunt sounded from the bed, and Draco watched Magnus’s back arch in a long stretch.

**IT GOT YOU TO STOP PANICKING AT THE SMELL OF SMOKE BACK THEN.**

**_I don’t mean back then. Now. The knife. The bed. Bad ideas._ **

Draco blew a long breath out the window, snubbed out the blunt, and took the knife to the edge of the bed. Standing over one’s ex-lover’s bed with a knife was inherently dubious, he thought, and set it on the nightstand. The mobile on the nightstand lit up and vibrated, and Draco flinched, wondering if he’d gotten too close to it.

Magnus rolled onto his back, laced his fingers behind his head, and sighed. “I’m not going to fuck you, _älskling_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Draco tried to respond, but stayed silent. Which outcome concerned him more, really? Did it even count to fuck someone if it was the hundredth-something time? Or did that make it worse?

The mobile clattered again, and Magnus inelegantly heaved himself on his side and groped around for it. He read the screen, typed something, and set it back down.

Magnus’s eyes roved Draco’s body. “You Purebloods and your fancy little underpants.”

Draco bit a lip and wished he’d been in a better state of mind upon entering. One pair of skin tight black briefs between the two of them wasn’t much.

“You Half-bloods and your damned mobiles,” Draco muttered, thighs flush against the edge of the bed.

“Oh?” Magnus’s brows rose in challenge, and Draco had a split-second to brace himself before arms wrapped around his hips.

His feet left the floor with an undignified shriek, and the room tilted as he slapped at the head of hair buried against his belly. His back hit the mattress with a hard thud, followed shortly by flailing limbs and an awkward squawk.

Magnus’s face dragged up Draco’s torso, stubbled cheek scraping up his chest, until they were eye-level. Draco’s breath fluttered out under Magnus’s weight. He planted a long kiss on Draco’s forehead and rolled off, onto his back. Draco watched him grope around for his knife, more perplexed than aroused.

A thick arm slid under Draco’s head and pulled him onto Magnus’s chest. He settled an ear onto him, took one long breath and _melted_.

The low, thundering heartbeat. The warm skin and soft hair against his cheek. His face turned, and he ran his lips over the curve of Magnus’s shoulder, drawing a long breath as he slid lower. _Gods_ , he smelled good. He smelled like _home_.

Draco’s arm wrapped around Magnus’s waist, and he unabashedly smashed his face into the other man’s shoulder, breathing deeply. The dull, sweet ache low in his hips returned, and he pressed himself against Magnus’s hip. His knee drew up along Magnus’s naked thigh.

The weed hit him, and the room faded out. Magnus and the onyx-eyed knife were the only things left. A small cut between Magnus’s fingers sparkled black and silver, like the knife, and he set it on his chest.

Draco picked it up with slow fingers and let it nick the side of his thumb. A distant shallow pain, but enough. Magnus took the knife and wiped a finger over the cuts in both their hands.

The rooms were still unnerving. Cells with doorknobs instead of iron bars. But less so. Thick fingers slid between his, and the drab room muted even further, like a sun-bleached painting. 

Magnus hummed a note in invitation. _The_ note. The note he’d forgotten. Draco hummed it back and opened the bond. 

Magnus’s placidity washed over him in a soft, muting blanket. It muffled his thoughts like a thick carpet of snow. A suffocating thing, if it wanted to be.

Draco moaned softly and sank his weight into Magnus and the bed.

_**Sing me to sleep?** _

**ABOUT WHAT?**

Draco smiled softly against Magnus’s chest. Rough fingers combed through his hair, and he hummed contentedly. It wasn’t home, this body, not anymore. But it was his first home.

_**Cake.** _

**EVEN THE FIRST ONE?**

“Mm hm.” 

The world dropped away as he sank into Magnus, his own skittering thoughts replaced by the slow, organized flow of Magnus’s mind. Images sorted themselves in neat piles. The stack in front of him was familiar.

_A naked blonde man was using a potato masher to mix eggs and sugar, and Magnus sat heavily in a club chair to watch. The man was slender, bordering on underweight, but entrancing as he swayed. He sang to himself as he fumbled eggs, pausing to give the eggs stern commands in French…_

Draco dozed off somewhere between a frosted monstrosity for his twentieth birthday and licking ganache off Magnus’s fingers.

—————————————

_Durmstrang was burning. The cottage roof collapsed, screaming in agony as it fell. A plume of fire erupted from the gaping maw, and embers spewed into the night sky. His arms were blistered and he reached for-_

**ÄLSKLING, WAKE UP.**

“The fuck?” Draco grumbled, eyes cracking open to dawn light. “That wasn’t even my bloody memory, Mag.”

“Sorry.” His voice was a deep rumble under Draco’s ear. “Go back to sleep.”

Draco tried to protest, but a slowly-thumping heartbeat and fingers in his hair sucked him right back under.

_Magnus and Narcissa were trading barbs over dinner again. Magnus slammed his fists on the table, and Narcissa cackled. Lucius passed Draco a glass of wine with a resigned frown._

_Magnus was three steps ahead of him, plowing a path through shin-deep snow on the way home._

_“Draco, don’t do it. She’s insane.”_

_“It’s not as bad as it sounds,_ mon amour _. I know almost all of the women. Hell, I’ve been with half of them already.”_

_“But it won’t end there. You know it won’t.” Magnus turned, impervious in leather and fur. “You’ll never be loyal to them and happy. Ever.”_

_Magnus stepped into the cottage and shut the door behind Draco. Draco’s teeth chattered as he looked up at Magnus’s face, cheeks pink from the cold._

_Draco hummed softly, a specific middling note, and opened their bond as he unbuttoned Magnus’s coat. His rising arousal was met with the other man’s wariness. The arousal won out, gaining momentum as Draco slipped cold hands under Magnus’s shirt._

_Magnus bent down, hands kneading Draco’s arse, as he kissed him. Soft, slick lips parted as tongues moved. Magnus’s hands grabbed ahold, and Draco was suddenly in the air, then held against Magnus’s chest, thighs around the other man’s waist._

_Draco’s fingers carded through the dark hair as his mouth moved, laying kisses down Magnus’s neck. His cock pressed against Magnus’s torso, and he moaned softly as his hips moved, trusting Magnus’s hands to hold him aloft._

_His back thudded against a wall, and Magnus crushed them together in a hard, heavy tangle of hands. His feet found the floor again as Magnus’s hands slid around his waist to his groin. Draco gasped as a cool hand unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his cock out, already hard. His own fingers fumbled at Magnus’s flies, but succeeded._

_A rough hand wrapped around most of his length and squeezed, pulling a long moan from him._

_He hummed the note, and Magnus hummed it back. Draco pulled on the bond as impending release coiled hot and tight in his hips. His hand sped as Magnus’s slowed, approaching the edge together. Desire matching desire, stroke for stroke._

_“Fuck,_ mon amour _,” Draco whispered. “I love-“_

**DRACO, WAKE UP.**

Draco growled softly into warm, soft skin. “Five minutes, _mon amour_.”

His arm and leg were thrown over a warm, naked body, and it was heaven. He nestled his face back into the man-pillow and let sleep roll in like fog. He sighed, relaxed. 

But his cock rubbed against his pants. His very hard cock. It felt good, he thought sleepily, and he pressed it against the solid warmth in front of him. The warmth pressed back, up against the leg he’d thrown over it, and that felt good, too.

Someone hummed a note he knew, and he hummed it back. The chest under his ear groaned so loudly, it pulled him back from sleep.

He took a deep breath and froze, eyes opening hesitantly. Desire and mortification fought a quick battle while he watched his own emotions register on Magnus’s face. Magnus couldn’t close his end of a bond. He never could. He’d been laying next to Draco, submerged in Draco’s own arousal while he dreamt.

Magnus moved, and air hit the damp spot he’d left against Draco’s inner thigh. His cock throbbed against Draco’s skin, hot and hard.

He considered objecting, but desire choked him off, and his hips moved of their own accord. Magnus whispered adoring profanities and held Draco’s thigh across his cock, moving in time. Draco pulled himself tight against Magnus’s side, hard length pinned between them as his cock slid against his pants.

“Oh, gods, _mon amour_ ,” he whispered as his skin flushed, cock throbbing as he thrust against Magnus’s hip.

Fingers laced through Draco’s hair, then gripped tight. Pain sparked in his scalp and melted down his spine to pool in his hips, hot and tight. He growled softly against Magnus’s chest as tension built, stuttered out a few final thrusts, and broke.

He came in a muffled shout, fingers digging into Magnus’s chest. Magnus followed him, splashing streaks up his torso and against Draco’s thigh.

Their breathing steadied and Draco pulled away from the bond, not eager to join Magnus’s post-orgasm lull. _Magnus_ , he thought, dazed. An impromptu frott session with _Magnus_? 

Fuck. This wasn’t part of the plan. Not even a little. Merlin’s bitch tits, Pansy had been right. Regret rolled up his throat like acid. His eyes itched, and he ignored Magnus’s questioning gaze.

Silently, he rolled out of the other side of the bed, grimacing at his pants stuck to his skin. The doorknob trembled, or his hand was shaking. Either way, it rattled as he went back to his room.

His eyes burned, and he wasn’t sure if it was Magnus or tears. He stripped down and wiped off before he noticed the absolute scads of letters that had been kicked under his door from the hall. Dozens of letters, most of them covered in a rainbow of international Owlery routing stamps.

He picked up a small one with the least number of failed attempt stamps and opened it carefully.

_Draco! Did you fucking die in Delphi? What the fuck? Write me back, or Merlin help me, I will abandon this job and haul your arse home myself._

_-Harry_

_P.S. I miss your arse.  
P.P.S. Like. A lot._

Draco spread the letter over his naked chest for lack of anything better to hold or be held by. This probably wasn’t how Harry thought he’d open it. Nude and just having gotten off with the man he’d said he had no interest in getting off with.

His throat clicked as he swallowed past the tightness. Tears welled, and he blinked them away, only to have them resurface as a sniffle.

Gods, he’d fucked up. He had another man’s come smeared up his thigh, and he’d messed this up so badly. _Fuck._

Letter still against his chest, he flopped face-down on his bed and let the tears come. He buried his sobs in a pillow. Always a poor substitute.

—————————————

Three piles of notes sat in front of him on the bed, separated by penmanship and sorted by date, oldest first. Before leaving, Magnus had bribed him out from under his blankets with a plate of bread, olives, and cheese and no small amount of platitudes. Shamefully effective.

Distant hammering and the molar-rattling buzz of saws interspersed itself between notes of spring birdsong outside the closed window. Occasionally, he heard Magnus bellow commands he couldn’t translate. Something about the roof or trussing something up.

He popped the last black olive in his mouth, scraping the flesh from around the pit before spitting it on the plate.

Harry’s barely-legible writing waited for him, and he opened the letters and read them, one-by-one, in order, ignoring the tears tracking down his cheeks.

_——_

_Dearest Draco,_

_How doth thou?_

_I never write people letters. So, how are you? I’m fine. Work is boring. The werewolf team is TOO good at their job. They keep sniffing out problems before we need to send teams in._

_I’m going to need new hobbies. Might start a dueling league. Parkinson is not invited. Neither are you._

_Yours,  
Harry_

_P.S.- I might decorate the Head Auror office with your other dick sketches._

_——_

_Dear Draco,_

_I bet Delphi doesn’t have Owls. If I were an Owl, I wouldn’t want to hang around there. Anyway, hope it’s not too creepy for eagles._

_So, don’t get mad. You’re gonna get mad. Okay, be mad, but I found a stack of dick sketches under the bed. I’m going to frame them later this week._

_Not wanking in his office,  
Head Auror Potter_

_P.S.- Absolutely wanking on my office couch. Glad I’m not the first one._

_——_

_Dracoooooo,_

_I’m hoping our letters catch up to you between Delphi and Kos. It’s been two weeks. Don’t come back and become an Unspeakable. They make me nervous. I keep getting equipment requests from them, and I think they’re building a fucking rocket or something down there._

_The Prophet article came out today, so I took the day off work and hid. You would not believe the amount of owl shit on the perches out by the road. Only a few of the letters were hexed. Weirdly, they were addressed to me, not you._

_Parkinson said she’d text me when you meet up in Kos. You and Ron really need mobiles._

_Miss you,  
Harry_

_——_

_Okay, this is a bunch of bullshit. All my texts to Pansy are undeliverable. Neither of you has sent a letter back. I officially hate this._

_In other news, Hermione’s PREGNANT. Yeah. PREGNANT. She’s weirdly calm about it. I’ve thrown up more than she has. Ron’s just walking around like his dick’s made of gold._

_Might go puke again._

_Harry_

_——_

_It’s been a MONTH, Draco. A MONTH. This is a load of shit. I know the Head Auror can’t just Floo out to Slovenia without raising eyebrows in DMT, but FUCK. I HATE THIS._

_Hermione’s still pregnant and your bed is too big and work is boring. The artwork looks good in here, though. Adams noticed right away, but nobody else has._

_I think Ron fucked something up with the wards at home. He’s been acting weird about it._

_I fucking miss you._

_Harry_

_——_

_Falk said he’d text me when you got to Slovenia, so I guess I’ll know you’re dead if you don’t show up._

_H_

_——_

Draco smoothed them out and set the most recent one on the pile before wiping tears from his cheeks. Hermione was _pregnant_ , Harry was obviously miserable, and Draco was thousands of miles away.

It had been selfish, probably, to not send them letters, but it had honestly never occurred to him. His days had been crammed with dissections and discussion with the Healers at Kos, and questioning his own sanity with the Seers in Delphi. And Pansy. 

He’d at least had a best friend bedmate while Harry was likely feeling like a third wheel. The last piece of cheese and a slice of bread disappeared while he set the letters aside and took out Hermione’s stack. The earliest one was addressed with more precise cursive than the most recent, which was a bit of a scribbly mess. Foreboding.

_——_

_Dear Draco,_

_I’m reasonably sure you won’t receive post in Delphi, and not certain you will in Kos, but I’m trying anyway. I’m just addressing it straight to Kos._

_Law school is pointless, like usual. The Wizengamot is nearly functional, like usual. Ron has another you-know-what in the Wheeze’s you-know-where, but he should have it cleaned up by the time you need to Floo in._

_Love,  
Hermione._

_P.S.- I’m going to tune your harp with magic this week, because you can’t stop me._

_——_

_Dear Draco,_

_I guess I’m telling you first, because you’ll find out last either way, but I’m fairly certain I’m pregnant. And I’m fairly sure you’re not surprised. That was quite the send-off roll in the hay._

_The Prophet article came out today, and I got letters about it in my post box at my old flat in Cardiff, even. There’s a pile on the table here that’s at least a foot thick. Lots of owl droppings._

_I’m guessing Kos doesn’t allow Owl post, either. Maybe these will find you in Slovenia. Harry has unreasonable expectations of owls and has been a grouchy mess the last few weeks._

_Hope all’s well,  
Hermione_

_P.S.- I’m going to pee in your mug for a pregnancy test, because you can’t stop me._

_——_

_Draco!_

_Definitely pregnant. My breasts hurt already. Charting it out, it looks like probably a Yule baby? So many babies. When the twins are born, tell Magnus to text me a picture! Or text me at all. He and Harry certainly have been. Dumb Quidditch memes, probably._

_Law school is still pointless. Harry’s a bit of a mess. Snippy. Ron’s very pleased with himself, and his damned brothers keep bringing him congratulatory Firewhisky._

_Shots of ouzo on my behalf, if you would._

_Love,  
Hermione + Stowaway_

_P.S.- I’m going to put stuff up Harry’s arse, not that you’d stop me._

_——_

_Draco,_

_This is my last letter, because you’ll be home soon. Harry said Magnus texted him that you made it to Slovenia. He went straight to bed and cast a Muffliato. Not sure why._

_Ron did something to the wards. I came home and he and Neve were standing around with gardening equipment looking guilty._

_Still pregnant. I know that’s redundant to most people, but you’re a Healer. You understand._

_See you soon!  
Hermione + Stowaway_

_P.S.- Harry said he liked it, but cried afterward._

_——_

Draco set the stack on top of Harry’s letters and pressed a finger and thumb against his eyes, entirely due to not having packed his reading glasses, and not at all to stifle welling tears. Definitely not crying about Harry crying after sex. Nope. Definitely not crying because Hermione was obviously concerned about the pregnancy. Nope. Not crying at all.

The last stack was all Ron’s letters, and there seemed to be more of them than Hermione or Harry had sent. But then Ron was used to having brothers abroad.

_——_

_Ferret,_

_Crookshanks will not leave me the fuck alone. Harry is also unusually clingy, but he doesn’t cough up hairballs. Yet._

_Wards are fine. The rose bush out front is budding, and Mum said it was too early, so Neve came by and did something. Said she’d be back in a couple weeks to check on it._

_I’m gonna assume you won’t have shit for post service till you’re in Slovenia, if then. Charlie’s delivery is spotty most of the year._

_Bring back something cool. Besides babies._

_Ron_

_——_

_Esteemed Ferret,_

_Crookshanks shat your bed. I cleaned it up, but Harry hasn’t been sleeping in it, anyway. Keeps talking about starting a dueling league. Dumb git._

_Patched the wards today. The Daily Prophet article hit the stands yesterday, and we got a few bomber Owls, but nothing serious. Patching those things is tedious, so kudos to you._

_Mum’s been on a baby shopping spree. There’s a stash of nappies and blankets and bottles and whatnot next to your arrival Floo, just in case you come home before Falk texts Harry to let us know. Don’t like, come up into the store out of nowhere with the twins, though. People will think we’re selling conception charms. Hm. Idea._

_Ron_

_——_

_Dear Draco,_

_The wards are FINE, despite what Hermione might tell you. The rose bush is doing great._

_Harry is NOT fine, despite what he might tell you. I haven’t seen him this miserable since he was single. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you spoil him._

_Hermione is PREGNANT. I, Ronald Bilious Weasley, have impregnated Hermione Jean Granger. You were there. Thank you for your assistance._

_I, Ronald Bilious Weasley, am only mostly scared shitless most of the time. Percy and Bill keep stopping by to get me drunk and tell me horrible things. Did you know, between the two of them, they’ve had three miscarriages? That seems like an awful lot. Hermione says she’s not worried, but I don’t believe her._

_We’re waiting to tell Mum. She’s already wound up about the twins. No need to steal that thunder._

_Ronald Bilious Weasley, aka “Dad”_

_——_

_Dearest and Most Lovable Draco,_

_I fucked up the wards._

_Neve left this automated sprayer thing, and it was just soooo much faster to load it with blood and seawater to do a pass over the wards. We think it had fertilizer and a bloodwort tincture left inside._

_Anyway, there’s plants growing all along the ward. Just a mile-wide ring of seedlings, but we don’t know what they are yet._

_The wards feel different, too. Like they’re their own magic, not mine or yours. Hard to explain. They still work fine._

_Also, Harry is fucked up, too. Nothing much to be done about it, but maybe don’t fuck Falk? I think that’s part of it, even though he says it isn’t. Or it’s all the babies. Probably all of it._

_Ron_

_——_

_Remember when you dumped Harry off at the Burrow full of Goblin aphrodisiacs? Yeah. Not too far off from his current state. Hermione tried to “help”, but I think it just made him miss you more._

_Neve couldn’t figure out what the plants around the ward were, but she said they were trees. She said she was calling a lignumancer._

_Dad_

_P.S.- Hermione’s tits look amazing right now. Do NOT mention it to her._

_——_

_Guess who the nearest bloody tree wizard is! It’s Markus! You know, the German version of Percy? The one married to Magnus?_

_Anyway, Markus said the seedlings are some weird variety of laurel. His theory is that there were a few seeds dormant in the soil. And then something about laurel wands being excessively loyal and that interacting with you having put protective wards up for years. And the Quintaped blood?_

_I dunno. He just left and went on a walk with Harry. Ask Neve when you get back._

_I think Crookshanks has a lady friend._

_Dad_

_——_

_Doubt you’ll get this, but I paid for express delivery, anyway. The Floo and basement are ready. I cleaned up a bit of a mess. Have Magnus text Harry so we know you’re coming, and we’ll meet you there._

_You and I are getting bloody mobiles when you get home._

_Ron_

_P.S.- Not sure what Markus and Harry talked about, but it helped.  
P.P.S.- Please have the sex talk with Crookshanks. We don’t need Kneazle kittens right now._

_——_

Definitely crying, Draco thought, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. It stung to have missed everyone’s reactions to Hermione’s pregnancy. But maybe it was offset by watching Pansy’s soft smiles over the last week as she daydreamed about motherhood.

Harry sounded like he’d been a right fucking mess, but was that Draco’s fault? This trip had been planned since before they’d been nothing but pains in each other’s arses. In a bad way.

Was it guilt? Guilt that maybe Harry missed him more than he missed Harry? Guilt that he’d snuggled up with Pansy? Guilt about getting off with Magnus? More likely that, but then Harry hadn’t told him _not_ to.

 _Don’t get married without me._ What the hell kind of guidance had that been? If the tables had been turned, Draco would have at least said something more concrete than that. Probably.

But then again, he’d flat-out told Harry he didn’t need to worry about Magnus being a complication, so Harry probably trusted him. Hell, Draco had _insisted_ it wouldn’t be an issue. Multiple times. Sometimes indignantly. And he’d been wrong.

Fuck it. There was a strapping, muscular oak tree of a man who had a tendency toward secrecy and a mobile full of answers.

—————————————

“ _Magnus Folsberg Falk!_ ” 

Draco’s voice rebounded off the shabby courtyard walls. Tools, boards, bricks, and crates lay strewn about. Magnus was speaking, his back to Draco. The men chatted while they ate, and a bottle hissed open, followed by the plink of a bottle cap. Several of the men sitting in the corner on a lumber pile looked around Magnus at Draco. 

Slowly, Magnus turned and lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Disaffected gazes from weather-toughened faces regarded him as the men helped themselves to trays of cold meats and bread. The man on the end of the lumber pile’s eyes roved up and down Draco before huffing derisively and whispering to the man next to him.

Magnus pointed a finger at the man, then a thumb at the courtyard exit. The man stood and walked out with quick, angry steps. The other men sniggered and went back to their lunch.

Draco lingered just out of arm’s reach of Magnus, the self-righteous wind gone from his sails. Magnus took a bite out of a small sandwich in his hand and washed it down with a long swig of beer.

A long breath escaped between Draco’s pursed lips. Magnus had no fucking right to look like a construction site wet dream. None at all. Spatters of cement or mortar flecked his jeans and t-shirt. Sawdust clung to his arm hair.

And dried blood flaked from between his fingers on both hands.

**WHAT DO YOU NEED, ÄLSKLING?**

Draco cleared his throat, not eager to communicate wordlessly in front of Muggles. “I was going to ask you about you texting Harry. And Markus being at my house. But now I’m a little more curious about your… injuries…?”

His eyes flicked between Magnus’s face and his bloodied hands. Magnus simply gestured toward the courtyard gate with a tilt of his head.

**NOT HERE.**

Outside the gate, the east-facing main entrance of the building was discordantly beautiful. Fresh asphalt gleamed darkly in a modern parking lot. A new, sharp-edged concrete sidewalk led to open, scrollwork iron gates.

“Talk, Mag. Why is a Quidditch coach rebuilding a castle? With blood?”

Magnus drew a slow breath and guided Draco along a footpath at the base of the castle walls. His fingers stopped to test sections of stucco as they walked.

“I bought the abandoned castle a few years ago. I camped out in it a few times as a teenager when I came to see my mother. It’ll be very popular when it’s finished.”

Draco nodded and kicked small rocks off the dry path as he drifted alongside Magnus, officially embarrassed with himself. A less dramatic approach might have been better. Shouting his name across a courtyard was momentarily satisfying, but perhaps not appropriate while he was working.

“Markus likes to come here when the linden trees bloom, in particular. The men work year-round, but only do exterior walls when I’m available.”

“Are you using Blood Magic in the walls?” Draco glared up at him. “In front of _Muggles?_ ”

Magnus shrugged an immense shoulder. “They know what I am.”

“And you’re not concerned the ICW is going to throw you in a cell?”

“The Muggles only know that my mother is a Rusalka. Mixing blood into the building’s mortar is not the most superstitious thing they’ve seen.”

Epiphany hit him as they rounded the corner and stopped to look down the edge of the short cliff ahead of them. The river beyond thrummed with motion, though the surface appeared still.

“You can ward the castle, can’t you?”

Magnus grinned, teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Fortress. Technically.”

They walked on, coming to stop outside the window to Draco’s room. Shiny nails were pounded through the sash and into the sill. His stomach rolled as the previous night’s sense of entrapment washed over him.

“Why do you need a Blood-warded fortress, and why the _fuck_ did you nail my window shut?”

Magnus shrugged and kept walking. “Rusalkas. They can’t leave the water, but they can sing you out of your bed.”

The mention of singing was too reminiscent of Magnus’s Legilimency ‘singing’. Draco bit his lip in thought and trailed behind. He shouldn’t have asked Magnus to sing him to sleep. Especially not with full knowledge Magnus was at least a little drunk. Had Draco taken advantage? Maybe.

Merlin’s tits. He’d gone into Magnus’s room, seen that he was drunk and naked, and still gotten into bed with him. Magnus wouldn’t have agreed to that if he’d have been sober. He would never have bound himself to feeling Draco’s emotions if he hadn’t been drinking.

No, not with what he’d said about Markus not sharing. He never would have put himself in that position. Magnus wouldn’t have jeopardized his relationship with Markus. His _marriage_.

Draco jogged the few steps to catch up with Magnus.

“I shouldn’t have asked you for that,” he said, barely above the quiet rush of the river. “Last night. I should have stayed in my room and handled my own shit.”

Magnus smirked, lips tight. “ _Älskling_ , I said-“

“No, Mag, I’m just-“ he drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. If you want me to, I’ll tell Markus it was my fault. Because it-“

“Draco, it’s not-“

“Mag! Just… just let me, okay?” Draco sniffed and wiped away growing tears.

His voice hitched, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat. His fingertips pressed against his eyes.

“I’d rather not be known for wrecking _other_ people’s homes.” His voice cracked, breaking into a tight whine. “Just my own. Not like I don’t have a history of it, right?” 

Arms wrapped around him and he dropped his hand, looking blearily up at Magnus. Soft understanding bordering on pity met him, and he bristled.

“Oh, _älskling_ …” Magnus said softly. “You did nothing wrong.”

“But Mag, I specifically told Harry-“

A muffled _hmph_ whooshed from him as Magnus’s arms pulled his face against the taller man’s chest. Thick fingers wove through his hair, keeping his nose and mouth pressed into Magnus’s shirt. He smelled like fresh-cut wood and sex, and Draco leaned his weight into Magnus’s hold.

His stifled sob shuddered out, and he hummed. Magnus hummed back, and Draco opened the bond and let the other man’s calm and surety leach into him. Magnus wasn’t upset. Not at all. Draco wiped tear-streaked cheeks on Magnus’s shirt.

He breathed deep and let his lips part, pressing them gently into the t-shirt against them. _Gods_ , he smelled good. Like sex, and sweat, and hot skin. Draco’s arms wrapped around Magnus’s waist, and Magnus took a slow, patient breath.

“You said you wanted to know about me texting Potter, and about Markus’s visit, yes?”

Draco nodded slightly, and took the opportunity to rub his nose along Magnus’s collarbone. His swelling cock grazed Magnus’s thigh, and he hesitated, not sure if he wanted to hide his arousal or lean into it.

“We talked about you, obviously.” 

He solved Draco’s indecision for him, nudging his knee between Draco’s thighs. Draco’s breath left in a hesitant sigh, not sure if the friction would be worth the frustration.

“And we talked about your ‘Seer shit’, as Potter so delightfully put it.” Magnus’s thumb stroked behind Draco’s ear, and his other hand drifted down to Draco’s lower back, pulling him in closer. “And we talked about your… needs.”

“Mm hm.” Draco’s concentration was waning, even though he desperately needed to pay attention. His hips hitched, testing the friction of Magnus’s thigh, and found it entirely too good.

“And it turns out we’re all in agreement. The three of us.”

“Mm hm,” Draco hummed into Magnus’s shoulder. A thigh against a fully-clothed cock shouldn’t have felt so good. “Wait. Agreement about what? About what I did?”

“No, _älskling_ , about what you can have.”

Magnus didn’t make sense. The hard warmth of his thigh made a lot of sense, but not his words. He tried to lift his head to glare at Magnus, but fingers in his hair and an arm around his shoulders held him tight.

“What-“ Draco started, but his hips slid up Magnus’s thigh and his breath caught. “What… can I have, then?”

“What you want. Up to point.” Magnus leaned down and drew a long breath through Draco’s hair, and they both sighed. “I’ll tell you.”

Magnus’s fingernails ran up the back of Draco’s neck, and he was fairly sure his eyes rolled back in his head. This man knew him far too well.

“You’ll tell me when I want too much,” Draco muttered, swallowing thickly. “Sounds more Malfoy than Magnus.”

“Well, in that case,” Magnus said firmly. 

He released his grip on Draco and stepped back. Draco frowned, suddenly standing empty-armed, mussed, and fully erect. “I take it back.”

Magnus smiled tightly and tugged his t-shirt back into place. Draco adjusted his swollen cock in his trousers and followed behind Magnus as he turned and started walking again. 

Harry had met with Markus in person. Harry had been texting Magnus about it, apparently. They had all expected him to fail at fidelity.

And never, at any point, had anyone spoken to _him_ about this. All three of them, just gossiping about what’s to be done with Draco’s inability to keep his pants on. The callous bastards.

“You all went behind my back about this,” he murmured.

Magnus kept walking, only briefly looking back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

“So, you all sat around and discussed me like an interesting specimen and decided what to do with me?” Draco’s cheeks flushed as his indignation rose. “Is this some kind of fucking experiment, Mag?”

“No.”

Magnus stopped at the corner of the castle, looking out over the river while Draco caught up to him. Draco stood next to him, angry and rigid in too many ways.

Magnus had known the entire fucking time that Harry and Markus had made some kind of bloody agreement. And Magnus didn’t see fit to even tell Draco what they’d agreed upon. He’d simply let Draco spend most of the day in his room wallowing in guilt.

“You’re an utter bastard, Mag.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know that, right?”

“Yes,” he said in a sigh, eyes on the river. “But nobody’s dared to say it to my face in years. Want to-“

“Utter. Fucking. Bastard,” Draco enunciated carefully, punctuated with a finger against Magnus’s chest. He huffed and leaned next to him against the crumbling stucco. His head tilted to rest against Magnus’s shoulder of its own accord, and he let it.

The view was breathtaking, but damned if he was going to admit it. Darkly glittering water, and bright sandy riverbanks. The haze of buds on the trees had shifted to a bright golden-green. He turned and drew a shuddering breath against Magnus’s skin. _Bastard._

“Want to guess why I’d put up permanent Blood wards against Beings who can’t leave the water?”

Stymied, Draco scowled at the river, like it held any answers.

“In case they learn how to make wands and hex your arse?”

“No. Not yet, anyway,” he said, a sheepish smile lifting his lips. “They can raise the river.”

Draco briefly choked on his own breath. “They _what_?”

Magnus’s smile spread into a feral grin. “They’ve flooded the entire valley before. Up to and including the fortress. Several hundred years ago, when they were attacked.”

“Are you planning on attacking them, Mag?” Draco said wryly.

“No, but they’ll see it that way.” His head turned, chin resting on top of Draco’s hair.

“See what that way?”

“Stealing the twins.”

“ _STEALING?!_ ”

—————————————

**Author's Note:**

> Probably weekly updates? You, semi-anonymous reader, would be amazed how much your input steers storylines. Be loud. 
> 
> Praise for the... don't make me say it.
> 
> Message me on [Tumblr: Vukovich](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/)  
> [Email me.](mailto:riley.vukovich@gmail.com) Really. It's cool.


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